


Every Sun I Poured Over You

by vellaphoria



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Red Robin Post Canon, Temporary Amnesia, Unresolved Sexual Tension, except they're both extra dumbass in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:20:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: Exactly three days, fifteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes after Wayne Enterprises’ New Year’s gala, Tim leaves Gotham without telling anybody.And Dick has no idea why.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson
Comments: 23
Kudos: 262
Collections: Dick Tim Week 2019





	Every Sun I Poured Over You

Exactly three days, fifteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes after Wayne Enterprises’ New Year’s gala, Tim leaves Gotham without telling anybody.

Dick knows this because that was the last timestamp on the train station cameras before Tim boarded the 9:30 to Metropolis. The cameras in the Metropolis station had been conveniently shot out in an Intergang heist the nights previous, and the footage from the train itself was corrupted.

From there, he must have gone completely off-grid. Even the Batcomputer’s considerable resources can’t seem to figure out where he’s run off to, and when Dick called the Titans asking if Tim was with them, they gave him a cold shoulder second only to when Tim first took up the Red Robin mantle.

He feels desperate and reeling. Over the last few years, he’s gotten so used to having Tim watching his back that it’s a struggle patrol Gotham with anyone else. So each night he goes out alone.

Alfred is worried. _Bruce_ is worried.

Dick is missing his partner, but he has no idea how to find him.

* * *

“No.”

The way Babs says it is flat and invites no argument.

Not that that’s ever stopped Dick before.

“But – ”

“No.”

Frustration sparks in Dick’s chest and catches in his throat. He paces across the floor of the Clocktower’s control room for the hundredth time. He wonders if this is the path Bruce takes when Oracle tells him no, and if Barbara ever has to get suspiciously linear sections of the floor repaired.

Dick breathes quickly and deeply, and it’s all he can do to keep his voice at a decibel level that’s both polite and reasonable.

“What if he’s in trouble?” Dick asks. “He might need help.”

He loses a bit of control at the end of it, and his words edge much closer to desperation than he’d personally like.

Where she’s sitting in front of her multi-monitor display, Barbara’s sigh is deep and long. Finally, she turns her chair to face him head-on.

“Dick,” she says levelly. “Have you considered that if he didn’t tell you, it’s probably because he doesn’t want to be found?”

“I just…” Dick starts.

Barbara’s eyes narrow at him. They’ve been having this argument for nearly an hour now.

“I just want to know why he left,” Dick finishes, quietly.

The look Barbara gives him is at the crossroads between incredulity and pity. It irks him, but she really does hold all the cards here.

“You really don’t remember?” she asks.

Dick blinks at her.

“… no?”

The word leaves his lips, hangs in the empty air between them, and then fizzles out in a slow, quiet death.

Barbara lets it. She stares at him, and it’s the look he recognizes as the one she uses when she’s trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. Generally speaking, she has about a 90% success rate on that one.

But this time, he isn’t even giving a half-truth or lying by omission.

Dick really, completely, honestly has no damn idea what happened.

The only other time Tim ran off like this was when Damian became Robin. And as much as Dick hates to admit it, he does know exactly why he is to blame for that. But this time… Damian has been working with Bruce lately. Now that Dick is back in Nightwing blue, he and Tim have more or less teamed up when they’re both in Gotham. Unless they’re talking about that one patrol where Dick ran off on a whim to grab a chili dog, there’s no real abandonment to speak of.

They’ve been on good terms. They’re partners again.

“Try asking somebody who was actually at the gala,” Barbara says, begrudgingly. “I only heard about it second-hand from the Birds.”

If it weren’t for Oracle’s near-omniscience derived from having access to almost every security camera in Gotham, Dick might even believe that.

“… the gala?”

“The gala,” Barbara confirms. “But that’s the only hint you’re going to get.”

“You seriously won’t help?” he asks, giving it a final effort.

“If you’ve fucked up so badly that Tim’s actually decided to go to ground, then I know from previous experience that finding him is more of a headache than it’ll be worth. And it’ll probably just piss him off even more. The last thing we need is him going back to work for Ra’s in a fit of pique.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Are you sure about that? Because precedent would indicate otherwise.”

“It was only like –” Dick thinks back, but then has to suppress his wince. “…three times. But he only _really_ committed to it once.”

The look Barbara gives him is unimpressed.

She may have a point. When Ra’s is involved, once is far more than enough.

Barbara removes her glasses so that she can pinch the top of the bridge of her nose between two fingers. Her eyes close, but her expression remains tense.

“Look,” she says. “You’re probably just going to have to wait this one out. I know sitting still isn't your strong suit, but you _know_ Tim. He needs time to think things through. And if you caused… whatever this is, he probably has more than enough reasons to be avoiding Gotham right now.”

She’s right.

She’s right and she won’t help him and there isn’t a single thing about this situation that Dick doesn’t hate.

He sighs. His shoulders slump.

“You’re right,” he admits.

“I know.” 

* * *

Here’s the thing: Dick’s not sure what happened at the Gala… at least not the end of it.

He remembers arriving thirty minutes early to make sure setup had gone without a hitch. He remembers dancing with several of Gotham’s most eligible bachelorettes. Making excuses as to why he’s very visibly single at the moment. Doing damage control when “Brucie Wayne” showed up thirty minutes late with snow on his coat and lipstick on his collar before giving a speech so moving that it had half of the audience hiding tears. Dancing with Cass. Stopping Damian from picking a fight with a particularly insistent debutante. Dancing with Tim. Taking an ill-advised fifth glass of champagne.

That’s about the point where his memory checked out for the night.

The next thing Dick remembers is waking up in the Manor the next morning with a pounding headache and very wrinkled suit.

Which is slightly embarrassing but not at all helpful in helping him figure out what he did.

* * *

It’s not that the Cave is quiet without Tim there. Bruce is at the Batcomputer typing up a case report. Cass and Damian are sparring on the training mats. Partway through Dick’s halfhearted attempt to work on a new prototype escrima stick, Jason even bothers to make an appearance.

Once, the sound of an unexpected motorcycle tearing up the Batcave’s main entrance ramp would have had the rest of them verging on defcon 3 in a matter of seconds.

These days, they’re used to it. And it _has_ been a long time since Jason’s tried to kill any of them…

He parks the bike on one of the lower levels and makes his way up to where Dick is working.

Just in time, Dick braces himself for the firm hand that lands on his shoulder. His soldering gun stays more or less steady even as the movement jars him, and Dick thankfully doesn’t find himself having to re-do all of the morning’s work.

“Hey Goldie,” Jason says, leaning in to stare at what Dick’s working on. “Heard ya fucked up real bad.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dick mutters.

Jason stands there with a hand on his shoulder, staring at Dick like he’s expecting him to elaborate.

Eventually, when Jason realizes more details aren’t forthcoming, he leans back out of Dick’s personal space in favor of leaning against the wall that Dick’s workbench is set against.

“At a loss for words? You? Color me surprised.”

Dick side-eyes him. “What am I supposed to say about it? I don’t even know what I did.”

Jason stares at him until he has to blink.

He does this twice more, the perplexed tilt to his head growing more pronounced with each cycle of staring and blinking.

And then he breaks down laughing.

It’s loud. Loud enough that Dick looks around frantically to see if they’ve drawn the attention of the rest of the cave.

To his relief, they haven’t.

Except for a couple of startled bats flying off to find quieter corners of the Cave, the other occupants seem to have either not noticed or chalked it up to Jason being his usual self.

Dick turns back to where Jason is half-collapsed against the wall, an ungraceful sprawl of limbs as he continues to laugh at Dick’s expense.

“Good – ha – good one Dickiebird. Even for you that’s a new level of self-unawareness.”

Dick narrows his eyes at Jason.

Jason just laughs harder.

Eventually, Dick is forced to give up, to put down the half-assembled escrima stick, and to stand in front of a mostly collapsed Jason, hands on his hips.

“Look,” he starts. “If you’re not actually going to tell me, there’s no reason for you to be here.”

“I think gloatin’s a halfway decent reason.”

And, well. It’s not like that doesn’t fit with the rest of Jason’s track record.

“I hate you,” Dick sighs, packing away the tools scattered across his worktable.

“Fine by me.” Jason pushes himself up with a hand against the cave wall until he’s standing right in front of Dick.

It’s times like these when Dick wishes he could forget Jason is taller than him now.

Jason probably wouldn’t stand for it though. He uses the extra couple of inches to his advantage, looming over Dick in a way that might be threatening if Dick didn’t normally come out on top whenever Jason ends up fighting him.

“You seriously don’t know?” Jason asks, an eyebrow quirked incredulously.

Dick glares. “I don’t even remember most of that night.”

“Huh.” Jason scratches his head in over-exaggerated confusion.

Which… just about sums that up.

“It might be –” Jason starts, a slow, mischievous smile creeping across his face. “ – that we just need ‘ta jog your memory.”

“Good luck. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened for days, but I keep coming up with nothing.”

“Ya know, they say that if you chew gum while ya’ study for a test, you’ll remember what’cha studied on the test when you actually take it.”

“… what.”

“I’m just sayin’, maybe the best way to remember what’cha did, is to get back in the state ‘a mind you were in when it happened.”

“By which you mean…?”

“Drunk off yer pretty little ass.”

Dick pulls a face. “I’m pretty sure you just want the excuse to drink.”

“I figure there’s no harm innit.” Jason shrugs.

Dick sighs.

It’s still early afternoon, and he doesn’t think he’s spent time day drinking since he thought Bruce was dead, Tim was with the League, and Damian was spending the weekend with the Titans.

Across from him, Jason wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

But Dick knows what kind of havoc a bored but keyed-up (albiet sane) Jason can do, so that’s the _only_ reason he says, “Okay, you win. But I get to pick the bar.”

Jason makes a show of looking put-out. “You never pick anywhere fun.”

“The last time you picked, we got into two separate barfights in the same night.”

“Yeah. Fun.”

For the second time in thirty minutes, Dick says, “I hate you.”

Jason smiles serenely. “I know.”

* * *

Champaign is the drink of choice for Wayne galas.

It also just so happens that it does a number on Dick whenever he drinks it.

He’s pretty sure he was about three glasses in when he drunkenly grabbed two more glasses from a passing waiter and passed one off to Tim. Tim – who was only two drinks in but more of a lightweight – accepted it.

Dick remembers toasting something like Einstein-Rosenberg Bridges or the original Star Wars trilogy – or, as Tim will claim, the only trilogy. Something ridiculous.

Tim clinks his glass against Dick's, and they both knock their drinks back.

“Hey,” Tim says. The word slurs a bit in his mouth, but his balance is as perfect as ever. “Let’s dance.”

“Dance?” Dick asks.

“Yep,” Tim says, popping the p. “You know, that thing people do at parties. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten all those lessons Bruce made you take?”

“Oh god,” Dick mutters. “I _wish_ I could forget those…”

“You make a valid point,” Tim says, smiling. “But still. You. Me. Dancing.”

Dick wavers, leaning in close, draping an arm around Tim and pressing their foreheads together. “Nothing sounds better,” he murmurs.

Tim’s face turns a pretty shade of red, but he laughs all the same.

“Come on,” he says, grabbing Dick’s hand as he heads out onto the dance floor. “The night is young.”

* * *

At the third bar of the night, Jason slams another round of shots down on the table of the booth they’ve claimed.

The surface of the table is covered in old water ring stains, and the wood is splintering at one corner. At some point, someone carved “Bruce Wayne is Batman” into the top of the table, which several other people followed up with carved variants of “moron” or “lmao.”

Dick wouldn’t be surprised if Jason had carved both the initial comment and some of the responses. He’s too far gone to analyze the handwriting with anything resembling competence, but the bar _is_ one of Jason’s favorites.

After going to two of Dick’s more regular haunts, Jason had finally demanded that he get to pick the next one.

Dick was honestly too drunk to argue.

Somehow, since then he’s gotten even drunker.

Jason knocks the shot back. Dick follows, though with much less coordination.

Jason slides the shot glass away from him.

It stays upright until it doesn’t, tipping over and rolling until it comes to a stop at the wall the table is pushed up against.

Without an imminent shot to distract him, Jason flops down on the table, pillowing his head on his leather-covered arms.

“Why’re you still sad?” Jason asks. “Too drunk ta’ be sad.”

That’s definitely… probably not how this works.

“Just… ‘m not sad. I’m…”

“Spit’t out.”

Dick stares at him. He feels like someone changed his center of gravity and didn’t bother to tell him about it.

“I miss him,” he says. It comes out as a whine, even to his own ears.

“I bet,” Jason scoffs.

Dick tries and fails to regain enough muscle control to glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means,” Jason says, snickering.

“ _Real_ helpful.”

“Wha’ can I say?” Jason holds up a hand. From seemingly out of nowhere, another two shots are deposited on the table. “I’mma helpful guy.”

He pushes one of them into Dick’s hand.

“The opposite ‘a that, actually.”

“Oh fuck off,” Jason says. “Drink yer shot.”

Dick narrows his eyes, but he follows the order anyway.

Jason keeps his on the table in front of him. He runs his finger around the edge of it, staring at what seems to be nothing in particular.

“What I don’ get…” he starts. “Is why ya diddn’ jus’ … check the tapes? Or somethin’…?”

Dick’s entire body tries to jolt to attention, but mostly it just makes him almost fall over.

Why didn’t he even think to check the tapes?

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he says, with feeling.

Jason wolf whistles, toasting Dick with his shot before knocking it back. “Dickiebird’s breakin’ out the big boy words,” he slurs. “Thought I’d never see the day…”

“Fuck you,” Dick sneers as he tries to stand. The world sways around him for a moment before his training kicks in. He’s a little proud and a lot relieved that he only stumbles a tiny bit as he makes his way to the door.

“Buy me dinner first!” Jason yells behind him.

Dick flips him the bird as he pushes out into the night, the sound of Jason cackling like a hyena echoing in his ears.

* * *

He falls asleep at the Batcomputer.

It’s not his proudest moment.

Thankfully, he was going to go through the computer's footage anyway. Erasing any evidence of him falling into a drunken sleep in the middle of the cave is easy enough to get rid of.

The footage from the gala though...

It's missing.

Not all of it. The beginning of the party is there, and so is Bruce's big speech. But everything that happened right after he saved Damian from his debutante-induced distress is just... gone.

Erased. He checks the computer's audit log, and whoever did it _also_ erased the record of them doing it. Which can only be done with an administrative account, and the only two of those registered to the Batcomputer's network belong to Tim and Barbara.

Somehow he doubts it was Barbara.

So, Tim.

Tim erased the files and any record of what Dick did along with them.

Dick folds his arms on the Batcomputer's desk and lets his head fall against them.

The universe certainly isn’t going to make this easy on him.

* * *

He takes it out on Gotham's superstitious and cowardly lot.

With a roundhouse kick to the head, the last of the would-be muggers goes down like a sack of bricks.

Nightwing dusts his hands off, pulling the zip-ties from a storage compartment in his gauntlets. Tying this sorry bunch up is short work, so he leaves them hanging from a fire escape just to keep things interesting.

He's about to make the traditional anonymous call to the GCPD when Robin drops down beside him.

Nightwing smiles at him, but Robin is having none of it.

"Nightwing," he says. "I need to speak with you."

"We're speaking now, aren't we?"

Robin narrows his eyes at the trussed-up criminals. "In _private_ ," he says.

Nightwing shrugs and makes the call. "Okay," he says once he's finished.

They grapple to the top of the building and then higher still. Eventually, they reach a building high enough that the only sound is the whistling of Gotham's wind and the distant sound of traffic far below.

Robin takes a seat on the rooftop, leaning back against a bank of metal piping.

Nightwing joins him. It's a mild surprise when Robin reaches up to remove his mask. In solidarity, Nightwing follows suit.

"Grayson," Damian says. "You're an idiot."

Dick scrubs a hand across his face. "We've been over this, Dami."

"We have 'been over' making such statements without what you consider to be just cause," Damian rebuts. "I believe you will agree that the situation has become quite dire."

"What situation?" Dick asks.

Damian looks at him like he's incapable of basic algebra.

“Alright,” Dick sighs. “Let’s hear it.”

Damian’s eye starts twitching. He looks as if he’s really hoping that some sound-related rogue will mute the entirety of the city right then and there. The breath Damian sucks in looks deep and fortifying, and there’s something like steel in his eyes when he meets Dick’s stare.

“You must make amends with Drake,” he says.

A not insignificant part of Dick wants to test to see if Damian’s been replaced by Clayface right then and there.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“ _You heard me_ ,” Damian growls. “Do _not_ make me utter those words a second time.”

“You…” Dick narrows his eyes at Damian. “Of _all_ _people_ , want me to make up with Tim?”

Damian looks supremely uncomfortable.

“Believe me when I say that I barely tolerate Drake. But he is…” Damain trails off, shuddering in a way that Dick is pretty sure Damian is purposely exaggerating. “… important to you. And as much as I hate to admit it, that does create a degree of obligation for me to help you.”

This can only go poorly…

“Damian,” Dick starts. “As much as I appreciate the offer–”

“Have you considered trying to find him?” Damian blurts out.

“Um,” Dick says. “I have. He got rid of anything that might have left a trail. I have no idea where he is.”

“So _get_ an idea,” Damian mutters. “Because this is getting _ridiculous_ . With Drake gone, the city is significantly improved. But _you_ won’t stop _moping._ I cannot enjoy a Drake-free Gotham if you continue to insist on being like this.”

Sometimes Dick wonders if Damian and Tim’s ongoing spat is still genuine or if these days it’s just the two of them going through the motions. The fact that once time he caught the two of them hiding in the Manor’s air vents while plotting an elaborate prank on Jason suggests the latter.

“…I don’t suppose you know what happened?” Dick asks.

Almost immediately, Damian flushes red.

He huffs, crossing his arms over his knees and burying his head in them.

“ _Unfortunately_ ,” he hisses.

“Well, what–”

“ _No,_ ” Damian says. “It was traumatizing enough to experience it merely once. I will _not_ repeat such a harrowing experience, even verbally.”

Knowing Damian, that could mean literally anything. One time Tim was wandering around the mansion in just his pajama pants and Damian threatened to gouge his own eyes out.

“Okaaaaay,” Dick says. “I don’t suppose you know how to find him then?”

“Who can tell with Drake,” he says. “He is capable of eluding even my grandfather’s best trackers when he puts his mind to it.”

Dick grimaces. “I know.”

“However,” Damian says. “I suspect that the nature of his disappearance centers around you, specifically. Drake is chronically overdramatic–”

Dick laughs, shutting up only when Damian jabs him in the side with his elbow.

“ _As I was saying,_ Drake is overdramatic. And as this is _clearly_ between you and him, it is highly probable that you are the only one capable of tracking him down, considering the nature of the events leading to his disappearance…”

“… what sort of nature?” Dick asks.

“The sort that has scarred me for life,” Damian says. “I realize that you habitually engage in this sort of fornication but I admit I am used to you keeping your... _indiscretions_ discreet.”

“ _Fornication?”_ Dick asks, more loudly than he probably should. “ _Damian_ ,” he pleads. “What _happened?_ ”

But Damian is already standing up and putting his mask back on.

“As I said.” He steps toward the roof. Dick scrambles to stand. “This is between the two of you. I want nothing more to do with it.”

And with that, Robin jumps off the edge of the roof, cape flaring out behind him as he grapples away.

Dick is left standing, one hand outstretched and the other clutching his mask.

It’s a long while before he puts it back on.

Eventually, he finishes the rest of his patrol. It’s a quiet night, so Dick is nearly twitching out of his skin by the time he pulls himself into a convenient safehouse.

He strips off the Nightwing suit, leaving it where it falls.

 _Fornication_ , Damian had said.

What did he _do?_

Without much other recourse, Dick throws on a tanktop and sweats before slipping into his half-made bed.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.

* * *

The dream is hazy in the way that dreams often are. Warm light and beautiful people flow around him in a gentle tide.

A woman places a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes are dark, her look is hungry. Dick brushes her off with his most charming smile, flitting away as easily as anyone raised among Gotham’s socialites.

The balcony is dark and distant, but the way the light hits gently falling snow is mesmerizing, and Dick finds it calling to him.

His exit from the ballroom less graceful and more stumbling, but there isn’t anyone out here to notice.

… there almost isn’t anyone, Dick’s brain corrects as he takes in the lone figure standing at the balcony’s edge. He stares out into the Mansion’s snow-covered gardens. Two pale hands rest on the stone balcony despite the snow that’s gathered there. It’s subtle, but the man’s stance indicates he is tracking Dick’s movement without looking.

Dick would expect nothing less from his partner.

To Tim’s credit, he doesn’t point out the drunken wavering to Dick’s motions as he drapes himself around Tim’s shoulders. He tilts his head slightly away from what is probably the champagne on Dick’s breath, and Dick takes the opportunity to bury his face in Tim’s neck, nuzzling into the warm skin that he finds there.

Tim lets him, for what it’s worth.

“Why’re you out here alone?” Dick mutters.

He probably imagines Tim leaning closer, inviting Dick farther into his space.

“You know how I feel about these things,” Tim says, absently. His eyes are locked on a point in the distance, but when he glances up, Dick can’t make out what it might be.

"Don’t we all?” Dick asks.

Beneath him, Tim stiffens “You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Tim says, forcing a degree of nonchalance into the words that makes their delivery unnatural.

Dick pays it little mind. Clumsily (at least, compared to his sober self), Dick brings his hands to bracket Tim’s hips. From his vantage point at the juncture of Tim’s neck and shoulder, he noses aside the fabric of Tim’s collar and places a gentle kiss beneath it.

Tim – somehow – becomes even more tense.

“More like other people were enjoying themselves at my expense,” Dick says.

There’s a quiet, barely-there sound in Tim’s throat that Dick is certain he wouldn’t have been able to hear had he not been pressed so close.

“How unfortunate for you,” Tim mutters.

“ _Timmy_.” Through the drunkenness, Dick is aware enough to acknowledge that as the tone which Jason generously describes as his whiny bitch voice.

If only he were aware enough to stop it.

Tim’s sigh is low and put-upon. “Yes, Dick?” he asks, and his resignation flows so freely beneath the words that Dick is absolutely certain Tim thinks he’s too drunk to hear it.

But in some ways, it’s always been like this. Tim buries his emotions, and Dick tries to coax them to the surface. Dick wears his heart on his sleeve at inopportune times, and Tim reins him back in when it counts. It’s a constant dance with each party circling the other, and Dick is equal parts exhausted and desperate for it.

Or maybe that’s just the champagne talking.

Inside, the low-grade white noise of polite conversation floats up a few decibels before the loud, clear chime of fancy silverware tapping a fancier glass rings out across the ballroom. The sound is chased by sudden, anticipatory silence.

Behind where Dick and Tim are standing, Bruce begins his customary speech. It’s one of the few times of year when he’s allowed to drop the “Brucie” act just a little and give a slightly more sobering performance. Bruce probably wouldn’t admit it even if Diana tied him up with that lasso of hers, but Dick knows the man lives for these moments. For a vigilante who claims to work alone, he’s always had surprisingly effective team leadership abilities and the even more surprising penchant for pulling inspiring speeches out of mid-air.

He says something about generosity and the inherent goodness of people, and something else about corporate dividends. The real skill is in making the first appeal to his guests even half as much as the latter.

Even so, Dick is certain the audience is as enraptured as they are every year.

Just, not him. This time, at least.

Because this time, his hands are around Tim’s hips and his face is nearly buried in Tim’s neck and Dick really hopes Bruce is too far away to see that they’ve abandoned the party to dance on the edge of this particular knife, but mostly he notices that Tim is shivering.

He has, after all, been out here for quite some time.

Dick presses another kiss into Tim’s skin, at the edge of his jaw, just beneath his ear. This time, Tim leans into it.

And this is a game they’ve been playing for a while now. Probably the last couple of years, by Dick’s estimate, but it’s hard to tell when all that time since Tim came back to them (to him) tends to blend together.

Dick advances, Tim retreats. Tim reaches out, Dick draws back. They’ve been spiraling closer and closer with neither of them wanting to make a move just in case, but that’s mostly a habit born of vigilante lifestyle. In the circles they run in, relationships are anything but easy.

Back in the ballroom, Bruce sounds like he’s finishing up. Right on time.

Inside, the crowd draws a collective breath as the count begins.

One minute.

Between Dick and the railing, Tim turns in Dick’s arms. There’s a carefulness in his movement, as he twists within Dick’s hands rather than in spite of them. He leans back against snow-covered stone.

Dick hasn’t drunk enough to be swaying, but he feels himself pulled in by Tim’s gravitational force all the same. A body pulled closer and closer to an event horizon.

A hand comes to rest on Dick’s shoulder. Another brushes against the tie clip that’s richer than Dick’s normal taste. A gift from Alfred for the first of these galas Bruce glared Dick into attending.

Tim and Dami has ones just like it.

Jason claims to have pawned his, but Dick would bet all the money in his admittedly meager bank account that Jason would hide the clip and lie about it sooner than he would disappoint Alfred like that. 

In his distraction, Dick barely notices when the assembled guests reach a critical vocal pitch in the last ten seconds of the count.

And then it’s hard not to notice, because three very distinct things happen within the space of a second, and each is more noticeable than the last.

First, the crowd hits zero with a level of elation reserved for the members of the upper crust for whom it’s only socially acceptable to be drunk in the presence of those who are comparably wealthy and equally drunk.

Second, the hand at his tie tightens, yanking Dick forward too quickly for him to do anything about it.

Third, Tim is kissing him.

Slightly chapped lips crush against Dick’s mouth. Tim’s breath is warm against his face. His hand is gentle but demanding as it snakes though the back of Dick’s hair. Dick’s eyes are still open for some reason, but Tim’s have fallen shut. Even as he presses his mouth against Dick’s, his expression is the definition of tentative hope.

Dick blinks.

Tim is kissing him.

Holy shit.

All too quickly, there is the sound of a distant whine, followed by the sharp-short burst of a mid-air explosion. The red color of the firework colors Tim’s face as he pulls back from Dick with something like disappointment or maybe panic sneaking behind his eyes.

Dick can’t let that stand.

Inside, the assembled guests raise their champagne glasses and cheer, toasting the new year.

Outside, Dick tightens his grip on Tim’s hips and pulls him out of the line of sight from the balcony doors.

Here, a light dusting of snow has piled up, but Dick pays it no mind as he presses Tim back into the rough stonework of Wayne Manor’s outer wall and reclaims his mouth. This time, Dick takes the initiative and swipes his tongue along Tim’s lower lip. Tim moans at it, and Dick takes that as an invitation to press his tongue into Tim’s mouth, running it along the sharp points of Tim’s teeth.

Tim tilts his head, allowing a better angle and Dick pushes him hard enough into the wall that it’s a simple thing for Dick to hike Tim’s up legs over Dick’s hips and keep Tim pinned there with his strength alone.

Tim crosses his ankles behind Dick’s back and clutches at his shoulder, at the back of his head as he directs Dick exactly where he wants him to go.

Where at first there was only frantic want, Tim slows the pace. He bites Dick’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking it into his mouth.

Dick moans with it, letting Tim take control. A hand loops around his back, fisting in the fabric of his suit jacket. Unconsciously, Dick gives a half-aborted thrust.

Tim’s legs tighten around him encouragingly.

A small, distant part of his brain muses that this does resolve the ambiguity of whether or not Tim wants him.

The feeling is mutual.

From the balcony’s doors, there is a sharp cough.

Dick and Tim stiffen immediately, freezing in place.

When they look over, Damian is standing on the balcony in the pool of light spilling out from the ballroom. It makes the lines of his suit look severe, more so when he places his hands on his hips.

“Must you engage in such blatant debauchery _here_ of all places?” Damian sneers.

Tim ducks his head down, burying it in Dick’s neck.

Dick blinks at Dami, his alcohol-soaked brain slow on the uptake.

“Dami?” he asks. “What are you doing out here?”

“Father’s event is coming to a close,” Damian says. “He was wondering where you were.”

“Dami–”

“Cease using that tone of voice, Grayson. I do not plan to inform him of your… questionable choice in partners.”

“Hey.” Tim says, pulling his head back to glare at Damian. “I’m _right_ here.”

“I am _painfully_ aware of that fact.” Damian says, crossing his arms. “I will be going back inside. I recommend you do not say out too long, or father may come looking for you himself.”

Damian turns on his heel, stomping back inside with all the gravitas of a kid allowed to be up past his bedtime on a non-patrol night.

Dick lets his head fall forward, resting it against Tim’s chest. There isn’t much he can do to stop the laughter that bubbles up from within him, so he doesn’t even try.

“Why are you like this,” Tim mutters. But soon he’s also laughing.

Dick releases him from the wall, a bit too spent on both the laughter and the cold to keep something like that up.

Tim lands gracefully. He almost immediately pulls Dick into a hug.

Dick goes along more than willingly.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Dick mutters.

“I didn’t think you felt the same,” Tim says. His breath is warm against Dicks shoulder. He presses a small kiss to Dick’s neck.

Dick hums appreciatively, leaning into it.

“We should go somewhere,” Tim says, leaning back far enough to meet Dick’s eyes.

“Back to my place?” Dick asks.

Tim laughs. “No, I think we’re both too drunk for that.”

“Yeah,” Dick smiles sheepishly. “Probably.”

“I mean we should get out of Gotham,” Tim says. “Just for a little while. I’d like to spend some time with you without interruptions like that happening every five minutes.”

“Gotham _is_ kinda prone to that,” Dick mutters.

“I know,” Tim says. “So we should get away, just for a little while. Just long enough to figure out what _this_ is."

Dick leans forward, tilting up to press a kiss to Tim's forehead. Absently, he wonders how long Tim has been nearly as tall as him.

"I would like that," he says.

"Do you remember when Bruce sent me on that trip around the world to train with all those assassins?"

"It's a bit hard to forget that..."

Tim chuckles. "Okay," he says." More specifically, do you remember when I was in Venice and Alfred sent you halfway across the world to bring me cookies?"

" _Right_ in the middle of _Carnival,_ " Dick says. "It was a madhouse."

"On the streets, sure. But what about that little safehouse overlooking the _Ponte di Rialto?_ It wasn't exactly quiet, but it was nice. Charming, even."

"I remember having to hold you down and make you take a nap before you ran yourself into the ground."

"Details," Tim says, waving a hand dismissively. "But I'm sure we could put that bed to much more _interesting_ uses these days..."

This time, Dick leans in to kiss his lips. It's soft and warm. Gentle.

Tim sighs into the kiss, his hands pressing against Dick's back.

When they break apart, Dick can't help but smile.

"I could use a vacation," he says.

"I don't think I've _ever_ heard you say those words," Tim says.

"Pot, kettle."

Tim rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "We're all just workaholics, aren't we?"

"To a fault." Dick shrugs.

Tim kisses the corner of Dick's mouth, but he pulls back when Dick tries to chase him down for more.

"We'll talk more tomorrow," Tim says. "For now, you need to sleep off all that champagne." When he excavates himself from Dick's grip, he wobbles enough that he has to brace himself on the nearby wall. "...and so do I."

"Tomorrow then," Dick chuckles. "I'm looking forward to it."

Tim smiles. It's soft and sweet and it makes something in Dick's chest _ache_ in the best way possible.

"Me too," he says.

They walk inside, and after they've helped Alfred and the event's temporary staff clean the place up, they head to their separate rooms in the manor.

The next morning, Dick wakes up with a pounding headache and no memory whatsoever of the night before.

Three days, fifteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes later, Tim is gone.

* * *

In his room, Dick opens his eyes to empty darkness.

 _Oh_ , he thinks.

As quick as he can, he throws on the closest shirt and pair of jeans, clean socks, snow boots, and a reasonably warm jacket.

Sixty seconds later, he’s out the door.

* * *

International flights are always long and uncomfortable. This is mitigated slightly by his use of one of Wayne Enterprise's private jets, but not by much.

Even with the autopilot making long consecutive hours of piloting a non-issue, Dick runs himself ragged with worry throughout the whole flight.

He'd made mid-flight arrangements with a local private hanger that contracts with Wayne Enterprises, so the moment he touches down on the tarmac, he makes a break for it, knowing that the plane will be taken care of.

The motorcycle he’d rented is ready and waiting at the airfield. The on-site coordinators wheel it out, handing it off to him. The tank is full, and its black paint finish gleams with iridescent blue beneath the full moon.

He takes nothing with him but the clothes on his back and a pocketful of euros he’d exchanged for while anxiously waiting to board his flight in Gotham. Swinging one leg over the bike, he takes down the tarmac to the closest road and disappears into the night.

Streetlights pass him in a blur. On any other night, he’d take time to appreciate the architecture, the atmosphere. But tonight...

A chill crawls up the back of his spine, thrumming in time with the purr of the motor. His heart beats an anxious tattoo against his rib cage.

The world seems to drip by in slow motion, and however quickly he traverses the city isn’t quick enough.

When he gets there, he crosses the Rialto on foot. The city's lights swim dizzyingly in the water far below. The dim perma-dusk of a city at night suffuses Dick's senses, surrounding him as he methodically puts on foot in front of the other. His steps measured, ceaseless. They carry him forward. Across the bridge, to the base of the buildings overlooking it. Down the street, and to the door of the one Tim's safehouse is in.

Dick finds his pace slowing as he reaches the building, until he’s standing still, staring up at it.

The lights in Tim’s safe house are still on; a gentle warmth spilling out into the Venetian night. A shadow moves past the window. It’s unmistakably Tim.

Dicks's heart catches in his throat.

He doesn’t register entering the building. Or walking up the stairs, straight to the door out of his memory and knocking on it. Three, clear, sharp raps that echo in the emptiness of the hallway around him. 

He counts his breaths.

The door swings open.

“Whatever you’re selling -” the person on the other side starts.

The person who is unquestionably, unmistakably Tim. 

Dick would know his voice anywhere. Even halfway across the world on a crisp Venice night.

Finally, _finally_ the door opens enough for Dick to _see_ him for the first time in what feels like a small eternity. He looks tired. Haggard, even. The circles beneath his eyes are darker than usual. His hair is tied back and slightly off-center. A few of the shorter strands have fallen out of it and sweep across his forehead. 

The sight of him sears itself into Dick’s retinas. Burning like the sun.

But seeing is a two-way road.

The rest of Tim’s words catch in his throat. His eyes widen, his muscles tense. He stands as a statue, staring st Dick like he’d just broken the world in front of him.

Maybe he had.

“Tim-“ Dick starts

The door slams in his face.

“ _Tim_ “ Dick pleads.

“You're not supposed to be here!” Tim shouts from the other side of the door.

Dick... doesn’t have anything to say to that.

“Please...” he says in lieu of anything better.

No response. He hears a thunk against the door, followed by the sound of fabric hiding against wood. The gap in the light at the bottom of the door widens; Tim, sitting against it.

An image of Tim with his head in his hands flashes through Dick’s mind. He feels the cracks in his heart widening.

“Please _what?_ ” Tim asks. It’s so quiet that Dick barely hears it.

Dick doesn’t know.

He sinks to the floor, kneeling as he leans his forehead against the door.

Tim is only a few inches of wood away from him, but it may as well be an entire continent.

He doesn't dare speak.

The only sound is the echoing of his own heartbeat in his ears and the quiet, ragged sound of Tim trying to force his inhales into a normal breathing pattern.

He's less than successful.

Dick counts the seconds until he loses track, too sidetracked by his own worry. He isn't sure how long it is before Tim speaks again, but it's long enough that his legs ache.

"Why did you do it?" Tim asks. "If you were just going to..."

"If I was just going to _what_ , Tim?" Dick keeps his voice barely above a whisper.

"If you were just going to _pretend that nothing happened._ Why did you... why _let_ me -"

It's not a sob. But Dick has been in this business long enough to know what it sounds like when someone is trying to force themselves not to cry.

A hot prickle at the back of his own throat tells him he isn't as far from that as he'd like to be.

"I didn't _pretend_ anything," Dick says. "I woke up the day after the gala with a hangover and barely andy memory of how I’d gotten that way.” He breathes deeply, inviting calm within himself. “But, Tim. My answer hasn’t changed.”

The silence on the other side of the door is sudden and violent. Where before Dick could hear the small sounds of fabric shifting or Tim breathing, now he hears nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Until all at once he hears sudden movement. The shadow at the bottom of the door splits into two once more, but only for a moment. It’s all the warning Dick gets before the door is yanked open from the other side.

Tim - normally a solid few inches shorter than him - towers over Dick where he kneels on the hallway floor.

“ _What._ ” Tim says, flatly. His voice is even, but Dick has known him long and well enough to hear the tremor behind it, caught between rage and hope.

Dick kneels to his fullest but doesn’t even attempt to stand.

“My answer hasn’t changed,” he says.

Tim’s eyes narrow, a storm brewing behind them. “Then _why did you -”_

“I… don’t have a good answer for you,” Dick says. “I was drunk. I forgot. It’s _stupid_ , but - “

“You _forgot_ .” Tim sucks in a deep breath, taking his hand off the doorframe to pinch the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “How do you just _forget_ that?”

Guilt crashes over Dick, stronger than a riptide. 

He sinks back to the floor, his shoulders slumping.

“That was rhetorical,” Tim mutters. 

Silence descends on the hallway once more. Dick is still as death, waiting for Tim’s verdict. For the door to slam in his face.

A slow dread creeps through his gut that Tim is going to end this… their friendship, their partnership, _them_ all at once. That Tim is going to shut him out again, just like he did when Bruce was gone.

The hill overlooking Gotham flashes through his mind. The end of a bo staff pressed in warning against this throat. The anger in Tim’s eyes. 

But this time, he doesn’t see anger.

He sees pain. Sadness. The same expression he saw on Tim’s face the first time Tim saw Damian in the Robin costume, right before he raged against the heavens. 

And his heart breaks all over again.

“I’m sorry.”

Tim inhales sharply. Incredulity and pain war across his face before he shuts everything down, his expression going entirely blank. 

Even in the best of situations, Dick had always found that slightly unnerving. Now, it’s shattering. 

“Fine,” Tim says. His tone is clipped, as if Dick can’t see the tears brimming in his eyes. “Apology accepted.”

And just like that, he goes to close the door.

“Wait - !” DIck springs to his feet, bracing it open with a hand. It’s a battle of strength for all of a moment, before both of them stop pushing in earnest. They’re left standing there, the half-open door between them.

“What do you _want_?” Tim all but snarls. 

“You,” Dick says almost immediately, before he can really think about it. Even so, it’s the most honest answer he has. 

Tim narrows his eyes all the same.

The silence between them is the moment before the first crack of lightning in a storm.

“...and a second chance,” Dick concedes. “Believe me, Tim, I _know_ that when someone breaks your trust, it’s hell to get it back. But we’ve been down this road before. With worst circumstances too. Can you honestly tell me this, here, right now isn’t at least partially because the situation reminds you of when Bruce was missing?”

Tim’s mouth gapes, not unlike a fish. “I -,” he starts.

“That was rhetorical,” Dick quips, cutting him off. 

And maybe throwing Tim’s own words back at him isn’t the best solution here, but, at his words, Tim’s eyes blaze with something that could scorch the surface of the sun.

“Then I guess we both have something to prove,” Tim says. 

Before Dick knows it, Tim releases his side of the door. The sudden lack of resistance sends Dick stumbling forward. He tries to regain his balance, but a hand fishing in the collar of his shirt interrupts him. It acts as a pivot, using Dick’s momentum to swing him around. 

The door slams behind them.

Dick’s back impacts the wall with a sharp thud, chased quickly by the heat of Tim’s body pressed fully against him. He doesn’t even have time to register what’s happening when Tim’s lips are crushed against his, hot and searing.

Dick stands there, stunned. Caught between pushing Tim back so that they can _talk_ about this and letting his muscle memory from the night of the gala kick in.

But Tim doesn’t give him the choice. He pulls back, just far enough that his hooded gaze can meet Dick’s slightly bewildered one. 

“If you want me,” Tim says, eyes darting down to Dick’s lips and back up. “Show me.”

Dick stands there, staring into Tim’s eyes. Breathing Tim’s breath. Eventually, they _will_ have to talk about this. But right now, his want is too much for words – 

Slowly, he leans forward, pressing his lips to Tim’s. His hand finds the back of Tim’s neck, then buries itself in the thick, soft hair at the back of Tim’s head. The moment Tim kisses back, Dick changes the angle, deepening it. He takes his time. Every attempt Tim makes to tip their pace to a fever pitch is met by the slow, unmovable force that is Dick practically fusing the two of them together, biting gently at Tim’s lower lip, tracing his tongue along the back of Tim’s teeth. Taking him apart as methodically and thoroughly as he would one of his escrima sticks.

When he pulls away, Tim's eyes have gone soft, though still a little pained. He ducks his head against Dick's chest, bringing his arms around him and pulling him close. Dick returns the hug in kind. Nuzzling into Tim's hair. 

"I missed you," Dick murmurs. 

"I missed you too." Tim looks up at him, his eyes drowning in reluctant hope. "Stay?" he asks.

Dick presses his forehead to Tim's once more. 

Their combined body heat blooms over him, warmer than anything he's felt since the night of the Gala. 

"Of course," Dick says. He presses his lips to Tim's temple, soaking up the pleased hum that Tim gives him.

Eventually, he'll figure out the right words to tell Tim how much he loves him. But right now, showing him is the easiest thing in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> What has two thumbs and is posting an incredibly late fic for DickTim Week day 4: partners... Anyway, I'm on vacation right now, but I found some time to finish this. 
> 
> The title is from _Billowing Sea_ by Emily Barker and the Red Clay Halo.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone over at the Tim Drake discord server for their encouragement throughout the writing process! If you want to help us scream about Tim, the link is here: https://discord.gg/GEJuUXw
> 
> Thank you for reading and happy holidays!


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